


Closer to God

by ClementineStarling



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, Mention of Past Abuse, Religious Guilt, Submission, somewhat dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 14:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17809703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: God tests his children, all of them, but most the ones he loves best.





	Closer to God

**Author's Note:**

> _Bisous_ to [Ciri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9) who already wrote fic for this ship. (Naturally!) //
> 
> Also, here's to ending my dry spell of not posting fic to AO3 (not a single upload in 2018 :/). I hope there's more to come. *chinks glasses*
> 
> __ _  
> Inspired by [this scene in episode 5x04](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kZZl0PPqX0).

God tests his children, all of them, but most the ones he loves best.

Why else would he allow the Devil to tempt them? To be human is to sin, to sin is to be human. And God is merciful, he grants them forgiveness, he allows them to atone for their sins even though the price he demands for his grace can be terrible. To know him, truly, is to know pain beyond measure. God let his own son die upon the cross, deaf to his pleas for deliverance, and only in death he took pity and raised him up to his side. So many more were slaughtered after him, disciples, witnesses, their blood the seed of the Church, but also warriors who were killed and maimed defending his name against heathens. 

Their faith grows from agony and death and bloodshed, and it always has. 

Thus, Heahmund reasons, it is in suffering that he is closest to God. The pain cleanses him. When it flares up, hot-white and blinding, when thorns tear through his skin and the whip eats at his flesh, he is aflame with the Holy Spirit. It is then that he can see himself as he truly his: rotten, corrupt, a base creature ruled by desire not faith, clinging onto life with greedy fingers, and he loathes himself for it. And oh, how he wishes to better himself, to be perfect, a flawless tool of his Lord's will, his sword to wield against his enemies, worthy to fall in his name and rise again by his mercy.

But no matter how hard he tries and how much he hurts himself, he never prevails against temptation.

It's not just lust he's guilty of, it's also pride. His king is right to reproach him for it.

As he falls to his knees, he wishes Aethelwulf had struck him down, punished him for his trespasses against his God and his king, for every sin leaves the soul wounded, and a wound has to be cauterized lest it festers.

But Aethelwulf, despite his righteous wrath, isn't furious enough to touch him. He may clench his fists in anger, but he doesn't lay a finger on him. Instead he takes a sharp breath. Exhales. Turns. Anger is twisting in his body but he lets his gaze wander until he has mastered his temper. When he leans down, his face is a mask of forced cheerfulness.

“You are not humble, Bishop Heahmund,” he tells him, his tone too calm to bear, and it's the truth. He is not. It was a lie, yet another offence he must atone for.

He shall follow his king into battle if he demands it, but it isn't enough. He must prove his submission, he has do penance for his crimes.

Heahmund doesn't raise his gaze when he whispers. “Punish me then, sire, let me pay for my sins.”

A shadow flickers over Aethelwulf's face, too fast to catch its meaning. His eyes are dark, his expression unmoved. What does he feel? Pity? Revulsion? Heahmund doesn't know. All he knows is how his own words still squirm in his belly, vile and hot and slick.

 _Punish me_ , he thinks, _hurt me. Humiliate me._

But Aethelwulf doesn't do any of these things. He merely stands and turns his back on him and leaves him to his own devices.

__ _

They don't attack that day. Despite his eagerness to retake the city, Aethelwulf has decided to send out scouts first and he's going to wait for their reports before he marches on York. And so Heahmund returns to his tent to face his God.

They put up a cross for him. Not one jewel-encrusted and golden like his brethren favour but one roughly hewn, more real than symbol, made to remind him of the origin of his faith, his saviour's sacrifice. He kneels on the bare floor before it, eyes downcast in shame. He kneels and he prays until his knees hurt and his back aches and the air flickers before his eyes and yet he doesn't stop.

Night falls and the scent of fire wafts through the camp, soon followed by the smell of food. Heahmund's stomach grumbles and his mouth waters but still he does not move. Men come to light candles in his tent, set a plate with food on the little table set aside for this, though none of them dares disturb his devotion, not one until most of the camp has gone to sleep. Compline has come and gone, they're approaching Nocturne when heavy foot falls announce a late visitor.

“I was told you were absorbed in prayer, Bishop Heahmund,” Aethelwulf says as he enters the tent, although he doesn't seem too concerned with the fact that his arrival puts an end to Heahmund's contemplation; on the contrary, he makes a point of taking his time before he enlightens him on the reason of his call, as though everything else he sees is more important than Heahmund: the iron wrought candelabrum, the untouched plate of food, Heahmund's few worldly belongings placed upon a table next to the bed. 

He trails his fingers over the fine goblet Heahmund sips his wine from and the soft leather cover of the Holy Scripture he brought along for his spiritual elevation before another trinket catches his attention, a pretty little knife. He picks it up and turns it between his fingers when he addresses Heahmund again.

“I can't say that I don't appreciate your piety. It's always commendable to seek communion with God. Although–,” Aethelwulf pauses to test the edge of the blade with his thumb. The steel is sharp. Sharp enough to draw blood. A drop of red wells up under the knife but Aethelwulf's expression doesn't change. He doesn't flinch, he doesn't curse. It's as though he cut himself deliberately.

He lets the blood gather for a moment before he raises his finger to his mouth to suck it off.

Heahmund's eyes flick up to Aethelwulf's hand, flick back down again. Heat is rising inside him. He tries to fight down the blush but Athelwulf doesn't seem to notice his embarrassment.

“In trying times like these, it is also important for a commander in the king's army to keep abreast of the king's plans, wouldn't you agree?”

This time Heahmund knows better than to look up. “Yes, of course, sire.”

Aethelwulf nods his shaggy head. “Yes, of course,” he repeats. “It would be the sensible thing to do. And yet–”

He doesn't finish the sentence and he doesn't have to. Heahmund understands quite perfectly that his absence from the king's tent this evening has not improved his standing. He should have grovelled before his king, begged for his forgiveness, not spent hours hiding away in his tent, kneeling and praying and… waiting.

Aethelwulf takes a step closer, big, brawny, imposing. He looms like a storm above him. His features are clouded with displeasure. Wrath is simmering inside him like lightning about to strike. He is magnificent like that.

Ecbert always tried to temper his son's passions, fashion him into what he thought would be a worthy successor, shrewder, more subtle, smooth-edged, but Aethelwulf never was what Ecbert wanted him to be. Even if he tried his best to please his father, God created him differently. He made him a warrior, not a diplomat.

It is so clear now that he's standing before him, Heahmund wonders why he never saw it before.

Aethelwulf changed out of his amour and into a dark tunic of fine fabric, embroidered with gold, but he's still more soldier than king, more wolf than noble. Times like these demand for a warrior to lead them, and Heahmund was wrong to doubt his decision. Even if they're all going to die on the battle field, it must be God's wish.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he says.

Aethelwulf doesn't respond. A muscle in his face twitches. Emotions writhe under the surface, his father's civility fragile now. He's still holding the knife. Blood drips from his hand to the floor.

Why has he come, Heahmund wonders, if not to take him up on his promise?

“Let me serve you,” he says. “Let me prove my devotion to you, sire.” He glances up at at his king, eyes bright.

He knows he is pretty in a way women are pretty, and he's been taught to take advantage of that from a very young age. (God made you very special, the abbot told him, grasping his face between thumb and forefinger. You will rise high in the ranks of our Holy Mother Church. – And was he not right?)

He inches closer, close enough to leave no doubt about his meaning, and for the blink of an eye, Aethelwulf hesitates. Heahmund can tell, he is no stranger to this. He has done this before, when he was a boy perhaps while being tutored with others, or later… with a comrade in arms, a reverent friend, someone close. There's always someone willing to kneel before a prince; he must be familiar with the kind of the service Heahmund is offering.

The moment of hesitation passes and Aethelwulf allows him to lean into his bleeding hand, painting himself crimson.

They both know how it goes. It is an age-old ritual, the submission, the blood, a blade to the neck and fingers clutching at Heahmund's head as he is pulled forwards.

__ _

It's not a reward, it is punishment, penance, and yet his treacherous body doesn't treat it like that. Even though his cock remains untouched, it stirs and swells just like Aethelwulf's. Heahmund's always been eager, too eager in fact, it's like an affliction how readily his body reacts to stimulation. So many devout women could attest to that, a few men too, though it's been a while that he was on his knees before one, pressing his face into his crotch.

The scent is overwhelming. It fills him with lust, with nausea, with revulsion. He wants to turn his head, close his eyes, shut his mouth, but instead he opens up wide and waits for his king to slide his cock down his throat.

Aethelwulf isn't gentle with him. (At least one of them understands what this is about.) His fingertips dig bruises into Heahmund's scalp as he holds him steady. Thick, sword-callused fingers glide along the hardening flesh in front of Heahmund's face, silky and flushed, obscene, but Heahmund can't look away. He's so hungry for it, and Aethelwulf doesn't have him wait long. He feeds him his cock, inch by inch, slides it over the flat of his tongue into the welcoming heat of Heahmund's mouth, further and further down. He doesn't give him much time to adjust to his size, he thrusts, seeking to sheathe himself to the hilt. Heahmund's jaw aches with the effort of keeping it open around the fat shaft, and his throat burns as Aethelwulf pushes against the tight opening, again and again, impatient for entrance.

Heahmund gags. His eyes water. Against all instinct, he forces himself to accept the intrusion and swallow. And finally, finally something gives way and the hard cock is shoved into him until his nose is buried in coarse curls and his mouth stuffed.

He can't breathe, and there's the flutter of panic in his belly, but large, strong fingers hold him in place. Aethelwulf's grip is like a vice. He could not have escaped even if he wanted too. But isn't this exactly where he pictured himself, on his knees before his king, doing penance?

Heahmund's head swims with dizziness and mortification. He tastes salt and musk and leather. His cock twitches. He hurts but the pain pales against the shame of how much he likes to be in this place. It's where he belongs, it's what he is made for.

Above him, Aethelwulf groans in pleasure. He pulls back, thrusts back in again. Saliva run down Heahmund's chin. Lips stretched wide around the fat prick, he has no control over his mouth or tongue or throat. He is but a vessel for his lord to use. He's alight with the thought. He is so hard, his cock throbs, leaks in his smallclothes. He resists the urge to rub himself through his breeches. Denial is part of the punishment.

Aethelwulf is a good man, a kind man, but a king cannot be kind. He must rule with an iron hand, discipline his subjects as he sees fit, and so he is rough with him, brutal. He fucks him like the filthy whore he is and he revels in it. He doesn't tell him as much of course, Heahmund is not worth the words, the insult, the distraction. He only grunts as he is taking his pleasure, lost in sensations, but Heahmund can easily conjure up the illusion, drawing from memory.

Harlot, they called him, a dirty little thing meant to be used. He is that, and worse.

His cock twitches again as Aethelwulf's erection grows and stiffens further in his mouth. The scent of salt like an ocean breeze, all around him. Heahmund's balls are heavy with unspent pleasure. He imagines his hand around his prick, the delightful pressure, a few firm strokes and he'd come but he does not deserve it.

Aethelwulf groans. His fingers tighten further around Heahmund's head as he buries his cock balls-deep in his throat. The swollen flesh twitches in his mouth and then his king spends inside him.

It takes an eternity. Colourful dots dance before Heahmund's eyes. They fade to stars in the night sky. A taste of hell, the darkness is absolute, there is no God here, but God is everywhere. God sees. God judges. Heahmund's balls ache. His cock pulses in sympathy, but there is no release.

Far away, in the real world, Aethelwulf is finally finished. One last pat on the cheek, fondly almost, and he pulls out. The softening cock slips from Heahmund's mouth. Long threads of semen and saliva hang from his lips. He gasps for breath and air floods his lungs, a rush of oxygen. The world spins, then he can smell and taste again. Salt and spit and stickiness. Nausea wells up from his belly. He suppresses the impulse to retch.

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, wipes the mess away. Outside the night breathes cold and still. There's no sound but the drone of blood in his ears, the hum of arousal in his veins.

Aethelwulf straightens his clothes. His eyes are cold as he look down upon him.

“It appears as though I owe you an apology,” he says, and it takes Heahmund's lust-muddled mind a moment to catch up on the sarcasm.

“I was wrong in my assessment of your character, Bishop Heahmund,” he continues. “You have proven yourself to be indeed my humble servant.” He puts his hand on the top of Heahmund's head, tilting it backwards so he can study his expression, and the mess he has made of his face, the lush lips red and swollen, his cheeks still wet with tears and streaked with dried blood, traces of drool and come on his chin.

Aethelwulf rubs his thumb over the line of Heahmund's cheekbone down to his lips. Heahmund can't bear it. He wants to flinch away, hide from his scrutiny as much as his touch, but Aethelwulf won't let him.

“I must say I enjoy this unexpected oral talent of yours far more than all your sermons and well-meant advice,” he says.

His jovial smile is tinged with cruelty and Heahmund wants to lean into that cruelty like into the edge of a knife, but the sleeping camp is waking, roused by an approaching rider bearing news for his king.

“Sire!” he calls, and “Your Highness,” and Aethelwulf answers.

Heahmund stays on his knees, motionless, for at least another half hour, the taste of his king's seed in his mouth, his own cock rigid as a tent-pole, and waits for the ache of arousal to subside. Only then does he open his chest of belongings and retrieves the whip. It will cleanse him of his wickedness and purge him of his sins.

~


End file.
